The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine

by Robert R. McCammon

  Something was on the tunnel floor, trying to crawl away through the ooze. It had one arm, the other a blackened mass lying several feet away, and its head was a misshapen lump. In the torn face, the mouth full of broken needles gasped like the gill of a bizarre fish, and the single remaining eye flinched in the light. The spiked tail had risen from its backbone and thrashed weakly from side to side. The thing’s hand started clawing frantically at the dirt, trying to dig itself in.

  Rhodes held the bundle of lamps closer to its face, avoiding the twitching tail. The awful ruined mouth stretched open, spilling gray fluid, and the eye began to smoke and burn in its socket. A charred, acrid chemical odor hung in the air. The eye popped open, melted in a rivulet of ooze, and the body shuddered and lay still. The tail thrashed once more before it fell like a dead flower.

  Electric light burns out the thing’s eyes, Rhodes thought. And once they were blinded, Stinger had no more use for the replicants—which were, in essence, walking and talking cameras—so the power source that animated them was simply turned off. But if all the replicants were in some strange way part of Stinger—powered perhaps by Stinger’s brainwaves—then it was likely Stinger could feel pain: the impact of a bullet, or the blast of dynamite. You hurt me, he remembered the creature saying to him in Dodge Creech’s house. All the replicants were Stinger, and Stinger was vulnerable to pain through them.

  Rhodes led the others past the burned shape on the ground, his pace faster. Daufin glanced only incuriously at the thing, but Jessie didn’t let herself look at it. Curt tapped his ashes onto the mangled head, though he moved past as rapidly as everyone else.

  And they were about ten feet past the dead replicant when dirt exploded from the tunnel wall to Rhodes’s right. A hunchbacked shape lunged for the lamps, its tail breaking loose from the dirt and slamming into the ceiling. Rhodes twisted toward it, but the thing was on top of him before he could fire. He heard gunshots: Rick and Tom’s rifles firing almost point-blank, and then his shoulder was hit by what felt like a runaway power saw and he was lifted off his feet. He was knocked against the other wall with a force that almost broke his back. Jessie screamed, and then there was more gunfire and Rhodes’s knees were sagging, warm wetness spilling along his arm. He went down.

  Rick saw the thing’s face: dark eyes and gray hair—the face of Mr. Diaz, who owned the shoe repair shop on Second Street, on a scorpion’s body. He thrust his rifle’s barrel into that face and blew its lower jaw away. The creature reeled backward, one arm rising to shield its eyes from the light. Curt fired one of his four bullets, shot a chunk out of its head, and dark wormy things boiled from the wound. Its tail swung, narrowly missing Tom’s head. Then the replicant turned and dove into the hole it had emerged from, scurrying back into the dirt and disappearing within seconds.

  Gunsmoke drifted through the tunnel. Jessie was already on her knees beside the colonel, and she could see the glint of bone down in the wound on his shoulder. There was a lot of blood. Rhodes’s face was ashen. He was still gripping his rifle and the lamps’ handle in white-knuckled hands.

  “Bastard clawed me,” Rhodes said. “Trying to break out the lights.”

  “Don’t talk.” Jessie tore the shirt away from the ripped flesh. The wound was deep and nasty; slashed muscle tissue clenched and relaxed.

  Cold sweat had welled up on Rhodes’s face. He smiled faintly at Jessie’s frown of concern. “Lady, talking’s about all I can do right now. I’m a mess, huh?”

  She looked up at Tom. “We’ve got to get him out.”

  “No! By the time you do … Stinger will have taken off.” Rhodes’s arm was, thankfully, still numb. He clasped his hand over the wound and gripped tightly, as if to hold back the pain before it hit. “Listen to me. If you want to get Stevie back … and the others too … you’ve got to do it for yourselves. I’ve gone as far as I can go.” He found Daufin, who was standing next to Rick and watching him intently. “Daufin … you said you could lead them. Here’s your chance.”

  “How bad’s he hurt?” Daufin asked Jessie.

  “No major artery’s cut. Mostly muscle damage. It’s the shock I’m worried about; he’s already suffered too many traumas tonight.”

  “So who hasn’t?” Rhodes was getting cold, and he felt unconsciousness pulling at him. “Leave me here and go! We’ve come this far, dammit! Go!”

  “He’s right,” Rick said. “We’ve got to go on.”

  “I’m gettin’ my boy out of there, by God,” Curt vowed, though his stomach fluttered with fear. “No matter what.”

  “We have to go,” Daufin agreed. The rhythmic pounding of the ship’s systems drawing power from the reserves was getting louder. She knelt down beside Colonel Rhodes. “Stinger may come for you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yep. Here.” He pushed the lamps toward her. “Somebody give me a flashlight.” Tom did, and Rhodes propped the rifle up beside him with a bloody finger on the trigger.

  “And dynamite too,” Daufin suggested. Curt gave him a stick, lit a cigarette for him, and put it between the colonel’s gray lips.

  “Thanks. Now I’m loaded for bear.” Rhodes looked into Daufin’s face. He no longer saw a little girl. A being impassioned and proud was kneeling next to him, and she had ancient eyes that had endured a world of pain but still had the shine of courage. “You’re okay,” he told her, in a weakening voice. “I hope you get back to your …” How had she put it? “Your tribe,” he remembered. “I hope you teach them that life is worth fighting for.”

  “I will.” She gently laid her hand against his grizzled cheek, and he could feel the tingle of electricity in her fingers. “You’re not going to die.” It was a command.

  “I always planned on dying in South Dakota, anyway. In bed, when I’m a hundred and one.” The pain was beginning to take him, but he didn’t let his face show it. “You’d better go.”

  “We’ll be back for you,” Rick said.

  “You sure as hell better be.” He put the stick of dynamite across his chest, just in case.

  Daufin gave Jessie the lamps and then started along the tunnel at a brisk pace. Jessie and the others followed. The metallic boom of the ship’s pulse told Daufin that the systems were rapidly energizing. The tunnel wound to the left just ahead. They had to be almost under the ship by now, and soon they’d see the opening into it. The question was: would Stinger try to stop them from getting inside, or let them enter the ship?

  As her eyes darted from side to side and she listened for the scurrying of claws digging in the dirt, Daufin knew Stinger was right: this warren of tunnels was his world, and he was everywhere.

  Her legs moving like little pistons, the alien warrior in the body of a child advanced deeper into Stinger’s realm.

  56

  The Chopshop

  “HOLD IT,” CODY WHISPERED. Behind him, Miranda and Sarge stopped. “I see a light ahead.”

  To call it a light was for want of a better term: it was more of a luminous violet mist, hanging at the far end of the passage they’d been following for the last ten minutes. Cody figured it as being about forty feet away, though distance had become unreal. They’d been in the dark since leaving the chamber where they’d been caged, and they’d been feeling their way along a passage with walls and floor that felt like soggy leather. Cody thought they were gradually descending, going around in slow spirals. They’d seen no other openings, no other lights.

  Cody held Miranda’s hand, and cautiously led her forward. She had hold of Sarge’s hand, pulling him along. They walked through two or three inches of a thick sludge that lay at the bottom of the corridor and dripped from above, and then they reached the luminous mist. By it they could see that the corridor wound to the right. Ahead was a circular portal into what looked like a large chamber, lit in a sickly violet glow.

  “Come on, Scooter!” Sarge whispered over his shoulder. “You gotta keep up!”

  They emerged from the corridor. Cody stopped, stunned by the sight.
>
  Above them, perhaps a hundred feet in the air, was a huge ball of purple mist, radiating light like an otherwordly sun. Other portals and platforms advanced up the inner walls of the ship right up to its distant apex. It made Cody think of what the inside of an antbed must look like, but he could see no other sign of life. About sixty feet above hung another black pyramid, the size of a tractor-trailer truck, connected to the walls by two massive metal arms. A network of thousands of silver cables ran from the pyramid into the walls, but Cody was most astounded by what stood before them.

  Across an area fifty yards wide and the same distance in length were hundreds of structures—spheres, octagons, bulky slabs, and some as graceful and puzzling as abstract sculptures. All of them were as black as ebony, and appeared to be covered with scales. They were arranged in long rows, connected by silver-blue rods; some of the structures were twenty or thirty feet tall.

  “What are they?” Miranda asked fearfully.

  “Machines, I think.” Cody had thought at first that this must be the ship’s engine room, but the rhythmic pulse was not coming from here but from a level below. One black wall was covered with thousands of dimly glowing, violet geometric shapes. Probably Stinger’s language, Cody guessed. On another wall were rows of triangular screens, displaying what looked like X-ray images of human skeletons, skulls and organs from varying angles. A different set of images appeared every two or three seconds, like a visual encyclopedia of human anatomy.

  “Good God A’mighty!” Sarge stared upward. “Got a fake sun in here!” But the ball of mist gave off a cold light, and the sight of it made his head throb.

  “There’s got to be a way out.” Cody held Miranda’s hand and started across the chamber’s black, leathery floor. Pools of slime lay everywhere, as if a huge snail had recently crawled through. Cody reasoned that there had to be another portal, maybe on the opposite side of the ship.

  They went between the rows of machines. Cody heard a slow whooshing, and he realized with a prickle of flesh at the back of his neck that some of the machines were breathing. But they couldn’t be alive; they couldn’t be! Still, their scaled surfaces expanded and contracted, each with a slightly different rhythm. Cody thought Miranda’s grip was going to break his hand.

  Hanging from one of the structures, a large slab studded with needles like an alien sewing machine, were scraps of what might have been human flesh—or a good imitation of it. Another structure held a huge spindle with a coil of finely meshed wires that fed into the next machine, and there was a chute with scraps of cloth, hair, and what might have been bones lying on it like discarded bits of trash. These were the machines that made Stinger’s replicants, Cody realized. The chamber was a chopshop, eerily similar to Mack Cade’s.

  Beyond the machines was another portal. Cody walked toward it, but suddenly stopped.

  “What is it?” Miranda asked, almost bumping into him.

  “Look at those.” He pointed. On the chamber floor, trailing into the passage before them, were thirty or more cords of what looked like stretched red muscle. Cody looked back to see what they were connected to; the fleshy fibers ran along the floor and into the largest of the breathing black machines. His next question was: what were those attached to on the other end?

  They had no choice but to enter the passageway. “Let’s go,” Cody said, more to get himself moving than for any other reason. He took three steps onto the sludgy surface—and then he heard a high whining noise like the line on a fishing rod being rapidly reeled up.

  The cords on the floor were vibrating. They were being pulled into the breathing machine, and Cody knew that something was coming through the passage ahead. He heard the noise of movement, the scuttling of claws against the passage surface. What sounded like an army of Stingers on the march.

  “Back!” he told Miranda and Sarge. “Get back! Hurry!” The noise of something massive was almost upon them. Cody guided them behind cover of a structure that resembled a gigantic blacksmith’s anvil, and then he crouched down and watched the portal, his spine crawling as the cords continued to reel into the depths of the breathing machine.

  And there it was, sliding through the opening into the chamber, its mottled flesh wet and gleaming under the violet sun. What had sounded like an army was only one creature, but the sight of such an ungodly thing speared terror through Cody. He felt as if his insides were shriveling, and he knew what he was looking at—not one of the replicants this time, but the thing that had crossed the void of space hunting Daufin, that had landed the spaceship here, dug tunnels under Inferno, and burst through the floors of houses in search of human bodies. There it was, twenty feet away from him.

  In the tunnel outside the ship, Daufin was still advancing like a small juggernaut. Behind her, Jessie and the others were having trouble keeping pace. Curt slipped in the slime, got up cursing and slinging the stuff off himself. Daufin listened to the pulse of the ship’s systems. She didn’t know if the force field had been turned off yet, but when it was a huge amount of energy would be shifted to the engines.

  At the rear of the group, Rick took four more strides and two hands burst from the dirt at his feet.

  One of them locked around his swollen ankle, the claws piercing his skin. He cried out “Jesus!,” pointed his rifle at the thing’s head, and started shooting. Pieces of flesh flew off the face. “Back here!” Curt hollered. He put the Colt’s barrel against the thing’s dark-haired skull and pulled the trigger. The head broke open, spewing its insides. But the thing was still fighting its way out of the ground, one hand gripping Rick’s ankle and the other flailing at Curt’s legs. Curt jumped like he was barefoot on a hot griddle. Rick fell, aimed his light into the thing’s face, and saw the eyes sucked back into hoods of flesh. They smoked and burst, the face contorting with either pain or rage. The claws released him, and the creature thrashed itself down into the ground again and disappeared.

  “Everyone all right?” Daufin had stopped fifteen feet ahead. Jessie shone the lamps back to illuminate the others.

  Curt was helping Rick up, both of them trembling. “Can you walk?” Curt asked. Rick tried weight on his ankle. Actually, the claw slashes had relieved some of the pressure, but his ankle was bleeding. He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.”

  “Hold it.” Tom had seen something, and he pointed his light along the tunnel in the direction they’d come. His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Oh my God,” he said.

  Four human scorpions were scuttling toward them, their spiked tails thrashing. The light hit them and they flinched, shielded their eyes, but kept coming.

  Tom lifted his rifle and started to fire. Curt said, “Don’t waste the bullets, man.” He flicked his lighter, touched the flame to one of the dynamite fuses. It sparked and flared. “Everybody kiss the ground!” As the fuse was gnawed away, he flung the stick at the things and dove onto his face.

  The seconds ticked past. No explosion.

  “Christ!” Curt looked up. The creatures were right on the dynamite. Still no blast. “Must’ve been a damned du—”

  It exploded. The four bodies were thrown against the tunnel’s sides in the thunderclap glare of the concussion, and the shock wave passed Curt and the others like a searing desert wind. Daufin was on her belly too, the blast’s breeze ruffling her hair.

  Jessie held up the lamps and saw two of the figures digging themselves into the walls. A third was lying there twitching, and a fourth did not move at all.

  “Bingo,” Curt said.

  Daufin stood up.

  And that was when the figure that had rushed along the tunnel behind her seized her by the back of the neck and lifted her off her feet. Two of its claws sliced into the skin, bringing a cry of pain from her. She was held at arm’s length, her legs dangling.

  “It’s over,” Stinger whispered, in the voice of Mack Cade.

  Jessie had heard Daufin’s cry, and she started to turn around and shine the light ahead. But Mack Cade’s voice was a harsh command: “Th
row your weapons away! All of them! If you don’t, I’ll break her neck!”

  Jessie hesitated. Glanced at Tom. He stared at her, gripping the rifle to his chest.

  “Throw your weapons away,” Stinger repeated. The replicant held the child between itself and the lights. The dog’s head writhed in its chest. “Throw them down the passage as far as you can. Do it!”

  “Oh, Jesus!” Curt fell to his knees in the muck, rocking back and forth. “Don’t kill me! Please … I’m beggin’ you!” His eyes were wild with terror. “Please don’t kill me!”

  “There’s bug bravery!” Stinger shook Daufin, and droplets of blood fell from the cuts on the back of her neck. “Look at them! There’re your protectors!”

  Curt was still rocking back and forth, making sobbing sounds. “Get up,” Rick said. “Come on, man. Don’t let this piece of shit see you beg.”

  “I don’t wanna die … I don’t wanna die …”

  “We’re all going on a nice long trip,” Stinger said. “I won’t kill you if you do what I say. Throw your weapons down the passage. Now.”

  Tom drew a deep breath, his head bowed, and tossed the rifle away. He winced when it splatted into the ooze. Curt threw the hogleg Colt down the tunnel. Rick’s rifle went next. “The lights too!” Stinger shouted. “I’m not a fool!”

  Curt’s light went first. Then Rick’s, and Tom’s lantern. Jessie threw the wired-together lamps away, and it landed near the blown-up scorpion creature.

  “You have something else,” Stinger said quietly. “The weapon that shouts and burns. What’s it called?”

  “Dynamite,” Jessie told him, one hand pressed to her face.

  “Dy-na-mite. Dynamite. Where is it?”

  No one spoke. Curt was still huddled over, but making no sound.